What Every Witchy Wife Should Know
by Grey-wolf-girl
Summary: Today is the first day of my new resolution. I'm going to learn how to cook, how to clean! I'm married, now, so I've got to! It's what all good housewives should do. And, with my copy of "What Every Witchy Wife Should Know," I'll do it all! …Right?
1. Not Good Enough

Wotcher, Tonks here! (Not Nymphadora, you people really need to get it in your heads. Tonks!)

Today marks the first day of my new resolution. I'm going to learn how to cook, how to clean! Because, you see, I'm dead clumsy. Nothing like Mum. She's brilliant at all this. She could pack a suitcase and even get the socks to pack up, with this little flick of her wand, see? Can't do that, myself. But I'm married, now, so I've got to! It's what all good housewives should do.

I have no idea where to start, though.

And, no, I'm not going to ask Mum. Like I said, she's brilliant at it, but I don't want her to know. I'm going to do this on my own. I rely on her too much, you see. But I'm an adult, even married, for Pete's sake! I can do this on my own.

But where to start?

Well, at least Remus is out. He'd laugh if he saw me sitting around like this, all confused. Oh, look, even my hair's turning colors. Can't seem to make up its mind, either. Navy, black, sickly green, silver, orange.

Hm, I suppose I could get that book out. That's where this entire idea of mine came from, from that book. It's called _What Every Witchy Wife Should Know_. Top of the Witch Weekly Best Seller List, that's how I found it. It's great. There's a bunch of spells for everything. I pick it out from the bookcase, from where I'd hidden it behind a few other things, and flip to a random section.

"Clean up those dastardly dishes!" is written at the top of the page.

The dishes! Yes, the dishes. Mum used to always do the dishes, after every meal. Let's go!

Down in the kitchen, I put on a lilac apron, roll my sleeves up, and get out my wand. The book says to start with a bit of water. Well, that's easy.

"Aguamenti!"

No, wait.

It says I'll need _hot_ water.

Hm.

I wonder…

"Lacarnum Inflamarae!" A little ball of fire appears in my hand. It floats there, flickering merrily. Then, "Aguamenti!" I aim so that the water spurting from my wand goes through the water but, no, it only puts the fire out.

Well, that didn't work.

Ah, well, using cold water can't make much of a difference can it? Of course not. Cold water it is, then.

I fill up the sink, like the instruction say. Not too difficult.

Soap comes next. I don't use magic for this. Last time I did, I squirted the bottle all over the place. Had to call Molly to clean it all up. She made me sit outside while she did all the work. I just wanted to help! But anyway.

I pour a generous amount into the sink and swirl it in a bit with my wand until a few bubbles form. For the fun of it, I morph into some type of bubble creature for a second. It's an odd feeling, being full of air like that. But then I start floating toward the ceiling, and I quickly change back.

Maybe I'm not as bad at this as I thought. Cleaning, that is.

Then again.

Next, I need to pick a plate and put soap on it. With magic.

"Mobiliarbus," I mutter, staring at the tip of a blue plate that's sticking up out of the water. It immediately shoots out, spraying me in water. I sputter, losing concentration for a moment, and the plate crashes onto the counter.

"Casualties are necessary," I remind myself.

When I try again, I get a plate to hover above the water without a problem. Then, "Aguamenti," again, but, no, the water misses the plate altogether, bounces off the wall in front of me and back onto me.

That's it, enough with the dishes!

What else can I do? _What Every Witchy Wife Should Know_ suggests making a bed. Simple, right?

No. Of course not.

Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. How in the world do people do this every day? The sheets refuse to move for a minute and, when they do, they wrap me in a chokehold.

I try dusting the living room. Instead of blowing off the dust from the top of a bookshelf, I knock the whole thing over with something that looks a bit like a mini hurricane.

…

I'm taking a break.

I trot out to the yard. The sun is just touching the tops of the trees. It's a beautiful, summer's afternoon. I sit on the back doorstep.

I've never been good at it, all that household magic. I can't scrub dishes clean, or make a bed, or dust the top of bookshelves with just a flick of my wand. That's for people like my mum, like Molly. But I can do things they can't do! I'm a Metamorphmagus, after all! Anyone can learn to be a good cook. But us Metamorphmagi, we're born, not made. We're special, rare, different, good to have around. Right?

Isn't it better to be a Metamorphmagus?

Isn't it, though?

I don't know.

When I don't know, I normally ask him. Remus, that is.

But that's just one thing I can't ask him.

He's so kind, Remus is. He'd reassure me whether I deserved it or not, that bastard.

No, there are just some things I don't want him to know about. Not that I don't love an dtrust him, it's just…

I admit, I was angry when he turned me down after all my hints. It wasn't a nice time for me. I cried a lot, couldn't morph properly either.

But then, but then!

Then Bill and Fleur proved that it's possible, loving a werewolf.

He didn't give up easily, though. That idiot. Said he's too dangerous, too poor, too old. As if it ever mattered to me.

Finally, though he admitted. That he thought I was funny, attractive, even. That he loves me. Which is, I suppose, why he tears himself up about the marriage.

Where was I?

Oh, right. Isn't it better to be a Metamorphmagus than a normal housewife?

I honestly don't know.

I think I know which one he'd pick, of course. Remus is so practical. He'd want a good, organized housewife. He wouldn't want a clumsy, messy kid like me.

Oh, no.

I hate it when I start thinking that.

No matter how much I try to convince myself, I can't stop them, the depressing thoughts.

No, no, no!

He loves me! He didn't marry someone else! He married me, knowing already what I'm like!

But, wouldn't he be happier with someone more like him?

Someone more practical? More mature? More suited to this life, the married one, that is?

What would he say if he knew what I was thinking?

He might use it against me, try to make me doubt and leave him. For my sake, of course.

Still.

I… I don't think that would solve anything. Because, we're in love. And I don't think we could live without each other, not now.

Again, I wonder, what would he say if he knew what I was thinking?

I don't want to find out.

I'm so wrapped up in my daydreaming that I jump up when I hear the front door close. The sun has sunk below the trees. I tilt my head toward the house, trying to listen. I imagine that I can hear his footsteps as he walks into the living room and discovers the still overturned bookshelf. But I can't hear any reaction on his part. The footsteps continue to the kitchen. His face appears at the window. He catches my eye and appears moments later in the doorway.

A harsh, barking laugh escapes his lips when he spots the ridiculous apron. But he doesn't say anything.

"Wotcher, Remus," I say quietly. I feel like such a failure. A total failure of a wife, that's what I am. I should just apologize for the mess I've made and get it over with. But I can't do it.

"Gray truly isn't your color, Nymphadora," he says, finally.

"Huh?"

"Your hair."

I reach up and pull out a lock of it to inspect. It's a horrid, old, gray color. Ugh.

"What's wrong?" he asks. His eyes are like liquid amber as they meet mine.

It comes out in a big rush. All of it, everything from the book to my failed attempts to the mess in all three most-used rooms of our tiny house. When I finish, his lips have curled in a crooked smile.

"Nymphadora…"

"Tonks!" I insist.

"Tonks, then. Did you honestly think you had to do all that for me?"

"Well, yeah."

"I'm flattered. But also a little sad."

"No! Don't be sad! I'll clean it all up, I swear. Or I'll get Molly to do it!"

"It's not that."

I stop, puzzled. "Then what is it?"

"Tonks, dearest, you don't have to change yourself. I married you, didn't I?"

"Well, yeah, but it's not like you were happy about it."

"Not happy about it!" he cries, looking almost angry. No, not angry. Exasperated. Yeah, that's the word. "Tonks, you beautiful idiot, of course I was happy about it! I married _you_, the real you, the you who bumps into chairs and breaks everything in reach! That's the Nymphadora Tonks I loved and married, the one I still love ."

And then I'm sort of holding back a good cry and he's holding me so that my cheek presses into his bony shoulder.

He continues, "Now, if you want to learn how to become a little more like Molly, that's fine with me. But, for goodness sakes, don't do anything that isn't entirely you!"

I nod into his shirt, because words just aren't easy when you're blubbering.

"I love you, Tonks," he finishes, so tenderly that my heart misses a beat.

"I love you more," I say, between hiccups.

"Thanks to the things you've done solely for me as of today, the probability of that statement has increased just a bit. But, no, it's still not true. I most definitely love you more."

I giggle.

He pats my cheek then runs his fingers through my bubblegum pink hair. "Much better," he says softly. For a very long second, we stare at each other and I get this odd feeling that, if I tried, I could see right into his soul. Not that I need to. I know what's there, and I love every bit of it.

Then he clears his throat and takes my hand. "Shall we retire to the bedroom?"

I grimace.

"Is it that bad?"

"The sheets tried to choke me."

"Ah, well. That's unfortunate. But we'll have to figure it out."

As we step into the kitchen, I remember a rule of _What Every Witchy Wife Should Know_. Always feed your husband when he gets home. "Aren't you hungry?"

"No, I ate earlier. Also, the kitchen doesn't seem to be in shape for any new experiments at the moment."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." For no reason at all, he pounces on me. In seconds, his mouth has found mine and his mustache is tickling my nose. He pulls away, bright-eyed, and drags me upstairs.

My copy of _What Every Witchy Wife Should Know _sits on the kitchen counter, covered in water and broken glass, and blissfully forgotten.

This is Tonks, signing out for now.

* * *

><p>I had fun with this. Tonks is such a brilliant characters isn't she? So funny and confident on the outside, with so much potential for self-doubt on the inside. Plus, she's a COOL Huffleppuff! We Hufflepuffs need more of those. Honest.<p>

I hope you enjoyed reading. Feel free to leave a review! :)

~Willow


	2. Not Worthy

This week has been terrible.

It might be argued, that, as someone who cannot find true employment, I might not suffer from overwork. But the fact is that there is always something to be done. I owe many people, and work these debts off in any way I can. Today, for instance, I worked with Harry on a new mission of his. There have been a series of unexplained disappearances near Dublin, and, having asked for my opinion, he determined that werewolves might be involved. Together, we set out to track down the cause (the Ministry was not informed of my help in the matter, for fear Harry might be questioned). That was four days ago. Of course, I failed to realize that the fact that the full moon is two weeks away may hinder our progress in finding _werewolves_. They were virtually untraceable. And so we finally gave up and vowed to return in two weeks' time, when our chances of capturing the beasts might become a little more favorable. I hadn't bothered sleeping during those four days with Harry. I took the Knight Bus home, because, to be perfectly honest, I was too exhausted to do anything else. Poor Harry made sure I was safely off before he apparated back to Ginny.

Harry really is an inspiration. He's dedicated to his job, to his family, and especially to his friends. It was Harry who helped purchase the little cottage my wife and I now inhabit. He called it a Christmas present, but it meant so much more than that to me. The location is perfect. The cottage is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by an uninhabited forest where I can roam free during the full moon. And it's good for Tonks. She needed a place of her own, I think.

Now, having regained a little energy during my time on the Knight Bus, I stroll down the abandoned lane. At a particularly old elm, I take a sharp left. A few paces later, I spot the cottage through the trees. A setting sun makes the white-washed walls glisten invitingly. Unbidden, my spirits lift just a little. All I can think of is slipping into bed and sleeping for a good day or two.

But I soon see that Merlin had other plans for me as soon as I opened the door.

Well, this _is_ different.

The cottage appears to have been through a war while I was away. I throw my jacket aside rather carelessly and approach the living room. The bookshelf appears to have been the subject of a particular amount of damage. Ah, well, there was nothing breakable in there. Just a bunch of books. But who in the world would wish to harm my overly thumbed copies of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ and _Confronting the Faceless_?

The quiet and settling dust is rather eerie.

A thought occurs to me. Ever since my marriage, the house has never been quiet.

Where is Nymphadora?

As my heart begins to pick up speed, I proceed to the kitchen. Here, too, are the telltale signs of a catastrophic battle. Between whom? Was Nymphadora…?

Water splatters the walls. There are half-dried puddles on the floor. The sink is full of soap and even more water. I approach it to investigate. The remnants of what appears to be a broken plate cover a book. I lightly brush off the pages and examine the cover.

_What Every Witchy Wife Should Know_ is written in an elegant cursive across the magenta cover.

Ah. I understood now.

I've seen this book before. Back when the bookshelf still stood upright, I found _What Every Witchy Wife Should Know_ carefully hidden on one of the shelves. Obviously, Nymphadora bought it in to better her skills as a "witchy wife."

What _am_ I going to do with her?

Images are coming to my mind. I can honestly picture Nymphadora attempting to clean up and only succeeding in making things worse with rather alarming ease.

Poor kid.

A grin threatens to overcome me as I imagine what she might have done to the rest of the rooms, but I repress it. At this point, finding Nymphadora is more important. She must be in a state.

I glance out the window, and yes, there she is, poised like a cat as if wondering whether to flee or not. The grin is back. I am much too fond of her.

I step to the doorway and lean into the frame, arms crossed. There's a thought in the back of my mind that I should play the part of a disapproving parent, but the sight of her fantastically frilly, out of character apron makes me break my poker face. I bark out a laugh.

She jumps at the sound. Then an odd change comes over her. The nervousness is exchanged for a complete lack of confidence. She looks horribly defeated. And it breaks my heart. But I can't just sweep her up in a hug and tell her everything's alright. I must let her explain first.

Her hair is gray. Her face is down, so that I can't quite see those tearful eyes avoiding mine. No, Nymphadora, don't do this to me.

"Wotcher, Remus," she murmurs.

The longing to hold her is becoming stronger and stronger, but rationality is key in such a situation. After all, I'm not totally sure that she wishes to see me at this point in her misery. And I don't want to make her even more uncomfortable.

Finally, I come to a decision as to what to say. "Gray truly isn't your color, Nymphadora." Yes. The sentence is a perfect mixture of wit and utter unrelated-ness, so as not to seem too direct. But when I see her obvious confusion, my confidence falters.

"Huh?"

"Your hair."

Her eyes travel up to catch a glimpse of her hair. For a moment, she is completely distracted. An adorable, very Tonks-like face of distaste emerges.

Perfect. Now I can segway into the real matter at hand.

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes, currently a very deep blue, meet mine. The impending tears give them a wet look. All of a sudden, words are pouring forth. She's telling a tale similar to what I had deduced from the wreckage inside. I know I shouldn't, but I smile at her clumsy, endearing need to prove herself to me.

"Nymphadora…" I begin.

"Tonks!" she cries a little too loudly.

"Tonks, then. Did you honestly think you had to do all that for me?"

"Well, yeah."

Inwardly, I moan in frustration. Nymphadora, why, _why_, must you be so absolutely, charmingly determined? And why must you sacrifice yourself for me, try to change yourself for me, when all I wish to do is become a better person so as to deserve you a little more?

"I'm flattered. But also a little sad." It's true.

Panic makes her face drawn. "No! Don't be sad! I'll clean it all up, I swear. Or I'll get Molly to do it!"

The cry of frustration is building up inside me. This puppy-like devotion of hers is maddening in its insistency. "It's not that."

She wasn't expecting that. My heart falters. Merlin knows, I do not deserve this selflessness. She asks, haltingly, "Then what is it?"

I try to control the chagrin in my voice as I speak again. But it isn't completely unnoticeable because, for Merlin's sake, how could I not be vexed by Nymphadora Tonks' irrationality? "Tonks, dearest, you don't have to change yourself. I married you, didn't I?"

"Well, yeah, but it's not like you were happy about it."

That line is my breaking point. No longer do I care about respecting her privacy. No longer do I care about controlling the exasperation in my tone. If I am to commit as selfish an act as marrying an untainted girl like Nymphadora, then, by Merlin, I won't allow her to suffer under delusions like this!

"Not happy about it! Tonks, you beautiful idiot, of course I was happy about it! I married _you_, the real you, the you who bumps into chairs and breaks everything in reach! That's the Nymphadora Tonks I loved and married, the one I still love ." The truth in that statement sends me bounding forward until she is within reach. I pull her into a hug that, under normal circumstances, I would have worried would crush her. Her tiny fists are pinned between her chest and mine and her face is pressed to the scratchy material of my worn suit.

It's so wrong, this love of mine. But, at the same time, it is too right for words.

But, I must now drive my point home. I must convince her that there was absolutely no harm done. "Now, if you want to learn how to become a little more like Molly, that's fine with me. But, for goodness sakes, don't do anything that isn't entirely you!"

She attempts to answer, but her whimpers prevent proper speech. Instead, her heart-shaped face nods into my shirt. How utterly lovable.

"I love you, Tonks." Not very eloquent, I'll admit, but utterly sufficient.

"I love you more."

I'm about to shoot that down immediately, but I remind myself to soften my words. "Thanks to the things you've done for me today, the probability of that statement has increased just a bit. But, no, it's still not true. I most definitely love you more."

A heart-warming giggle bursts out of her mouth. Looking up at me, she rests her chin on my collarbone and cocks her head to the side. I place what I imagine to be a calloused hand to her cheek. At my touch, the tiniest of smiles brings a familiar sparkle back to her red-rimmed eyes. Noticing that her hair has regained a cheerful, pink shade, I run my fingers through it. "Much better," I comment.

Our eyes meet again and an unspoken message passes between us.

I honestly do love this girl with every bit of my broken whole.

The moment passes, and I'm suddenly uncomfortable. As awkward as a schoolboy, I clear my throat to dispel the lump that has formed there and link my fingers with hers. "Shall we retire to the bedroom?"

She sticks out her tongue from between her perfect, full lips in a grimace. For a reason I cannot explain, the sight of that tongue sends my amorous mind onto a completely new, rather lustful track. I tear myself away from my overworking imagination and smile at her. "That bad?"

"The sheets tried to choke me."

I choke back a snigger. "Ah, well. That's unfortunate. But we'll have to figure it out." I pull her along, back into the cottage.

She pauses as she enters the kitchen and shoots me a thoughtful look. "Aren't you hungy?"

"No, I ate earlier. Also, the kitchen doesn't seem to be in shape for any new experiments at the moment." The first part is a lie – nourishment and rest weren't particularly important during the last few days of my life – but the second bit is honest. I can only imagine the time it will take for Nymphadora to put everything back in order. I resolve to do it for her before she wakes up tomorrow. I can catch up on the rest later, what's important is that she not be reminded of her faults.

She looks doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." There is no obvious trigger this time for the sudden release of emotion, but it comes suddenly and intensely. A lust for her overcomes me and I allow my instincts to rule, for once, as my mouth finds hers. In the time I had been away, I had forgotten the sweet taste of her lips and the delicate scent of her skin. And now I want to memorize it all over again. But, first, we have to get to the bedroom. Miraculously, I conjure up enough resolve to pull back so as to lead her upstairs…

Later, I watch her sleeping face, bathed in moonlight. As she mutters a half-hearted thought to the peaceful night, a lock of silvery hair falls in front of her nose. I carefully push it back behind her ear.

The predatory sheets had been easy to soothe. She had murmured words of adoration before she fell into a land of worriless dreams. But I, for reasons unexplained, had not felt the tiredness that had threatened me so before. Instead, I lie beside her, one arm slung lazily around her waist. And I think.

I don't deserve Nymphadora Tonks.

I don't deserve her youth.

I don't deserve her beauty.

I don't deserve her touches or her kisses.

I don't deserve her altruism.

I don't deserve her unconditional love.

I don't deserve her whole.

Living with her, watching her irrational immaturity and her still hormone-ruled reactions, I'm constantly reminded of just how much I don't deserve her. Truly, marrying Nymphadora Tonks was the most selfish thing I have ever done. But it _is_ done. All I can do now is convince her that, of the two of us, she is the one who is perfect exactly as she is. I swear that I will, if it's the last thing I do.

* * *

><p>You know, writing this, I realized just how true my words of the last chapter were. Not only does Tonks have potential under the surface, so does her spouse! This chapter I got to delve into the inner workings of Remus Lupin. Which I enjoyed, perhaps a little too much. I worry, though, that I may have made him too fatherly here. It's difficult not to, because he's so aware of the age difference that separates them. So, what do you think (because your opinions are the ones that count)? Did I balance the fatherlover role of his well enough?

Also, I realize he's over-thinking things a bit. But that's sort of how he would function, in my opinion. He _was_ the most mature of the Marauders and is known for always thinking things through. Doesn't it make sense that he would overanalyze his situations sometimes? No? Ah, well.

I'm gonna put this up then go do all that other ridiculous stuff I have to do. After all, FF comes first! (psh, who needs homework anyway)

~Willow

P.S. Were those first few paragraphs a promise for the future? Of course not... As if I can write a story over 2 chapters long... (don'tlookatmedon'tlookatmeDON'TLOOKATME)


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